Kol Nidre is actually an amazing piece of music. I've been rehearsing the Samuel Adler version, which does some beautiful things with text-painting in the vocal line, and really helps drive home the point of my pre-holy day text study a few weeks back.The point of it all is still that one word: nafshatana. Our souls. Note that it's plural. No one is doing this alone, without a net. That is why we do all this, why we sing and pray and stand together in shul and support each other in our turning and returning. On erev Yom Kippur this Friday night (also erev Shabbat, making for one heck of a sabbath if you ask me), we will hold up each other's souls in support, humility and love. And THAT is what I have come to understand that Kol Nidre is really about.

If you are preparing for Yom Kippur, G'mar chatimah tovah -- may you be sealed in the book of life for a good year.

And so we come to end of the Jewish year 5774. For me it was definitely a huge year of growth and learning. Not all of the lessons came easily. Some came at a steep price, but in hindsight it was a price I needed to pay because I needed the lessons far more. It was also a year that introduced me to new mentors, deepened some wonderful friendships and reaffirmed the depth and miraculousness of my love for my Sweetie, and hers for me.

Tomorrow night I will say goodbye, and then hello to the Jewish year 5775. I am blessed that I get to do it with prayer and song and among friends. I look forward to whatever new lessons and opportunities may come my way, and I hope I'll be given a chance to pay forward at least some of the thousand kindnesses that have been shown to me in this past year. I am entering this new year of the soul filled with humility and gratitude.

Happy Autumn to everyone! and if you are celebrating Rosh Hashanah, may you be inscribed for a sweet year of life, health and peace.

Lots of people will remember where they were on this day 13 years ago, and so do I. But today my remembrance has less to do with the awful things that happened, and more to do with family.I was taking grad courses in suburban Philadelphia that morning. (Last night, I found the careful notes I'd taken on that long ago morning, in Saul Wachs' class on Shabbat Liturgy.) By lunchtime, classes were cancelled and, because the trains were shut down, I hitced a ride from a classmate, who took me as far south as Temple University before traffic got ridiculous and she had to turn and head west. I thanked her, hopped out and walked the rest of the way home, rubbing shoulders with Temple students and worried residents of the surrounding neighborhood.

When I got to a phone booth in front of the Free Library at 17th and JFK -- I didn't have a cell phone back then -- I stood in line and waited to call my father, who would be worried that his youngest was living between two of the attack sites. Philadelphia was, roughly, only a hundred miles from everywhere that things were happening. What I remember is the sound of Dad's voice -- deep and resonant as always, and sad and a little scared. He was so glad to hear from me. I couldn't talk long -- there were many dozens of people in line behind me -- so we told each other "I love you" and I hung up, and walked the rest of the way home to my roach-infested apartment near Rittenhouse Square. I sat there for the rest of the afternoon, watching the occasional cockroach skitter across the kitchen floor and listening to the radio. After a few hours, I turned it off when I could no longer bear to listen, and went for an aimless walk around the neighborhood. People were waiting in lines at phone booths, sitting huddled together in bars and coffeehouses; a few shops had turned their TV sets to the front of their display windows so passersby could watch the news, bleating the same awful things over and over as if on some kind of loop. Churches in the neighborhood had their doors open and people came and went, to light a candle or say a prayer on their way home. The synagogue nearest my place was locked up tight. I walked all the way down to the bike shop on South Street where I worked part-time. The owner was there, sitting on a bench in front of his closed-up shop, drinking beer and eating a huge chicken sandwich his wife had made him. I enjoyed his wife's cooking when I worked nights there -- free dinner was part of the deal. C held out the other half of the sandwich to me. I wasn't hungry and politely refused. He wrapped it up in a newspaper and told me to take it home for later, and then loaded up my cargo shorts pockets with four stubbies of beer and an apple. We hugged silently and then he got on his bike and rode away. I walked the ten blocks home in silence. Along the way, I looked at burned-out buildings and vacant lots with gravel and potholes. My father had grown up in this city; his voice on the phone had been my excited tour guide when I moved there to take graduate school classes. I wonder how much of South Philly looked this way when he'd left in the fifties.

I tried to sleep, but it was too warm and I was too wound up. In the end I sat on the front stoop of my apartment house, with a candle in a jar for some light. Several front stoops on my block displayed similar candles. At midnight, I finally ate the half sandwich and drank a beer and stared at the sky. In my head, I heard my father's voice, comforting me, reassuring me, telling me things would be alright. They wouldn't be, of course -- and in some ways, they haven't been ever since. But that night, I went to bed with the sound of my father's voice in my head, terribly sad about the day but grateful that I still had a parent in the world to worry about me so. Thirteen years later, I can still hear his voice in my head, and I miss him.

I spent this past Shabbat in Phoenix, where I got to know the rabbis and community at Temple Chai. I felt warmly welcomed from the moment I arrived in Phoenix. Shabbat was sweet and very hamish ("homey") and I am looking forward to my subsequent visits over the next several months. (See the Calendar page for dates and if you'll be in the Phoenix area, come make Shabbes with me and my new friends on a Friday evening!)

This week, I did something sort of crazy: I asked God/The Universe/Insert Your Favorite Cosmic Is-ness for a teacher. I asked to be open to whatever comes in. I have spent so much time and energy putting out and giving out, writing and giving music away, that I have neglected putting energy into also being a student. Even as I prepare to go and give of myself musically, I need to be open to whatever learning opportunities might present themselves. So I asked. Some things will take their time to come to me. Others are already appearing on the horizon.The world really is amazing sometimes if I just get out of the way and let it be.

As the time speeds up and the day of my departure gets closer, I cannot believe this opportunity that is presenting itself to me. I am filled with gratitude for all the good people who have sent me good wishes encouragement and helpful suggestions (including my Sweetie, who has given me some really helpful instruction in vocal care and technique and who is a gentle, smart teacher). I am also filled with a sense of how great this responsibility is, and I pray with all my being that I will be up to the task ahead.

Because all work and no play makes for a lopsided brain, I AM making sure to get out and ride my bike daily, and to spend time with friends and family before I head out. I am sitting on a tall stack of gratitudes these days, for family, friends, music, Judaism, bicycles and my slightly wild and unpredictable life.